


Snow

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: It seems only fitting that she finally realises there’s someone to lose as she’s standing, staring at the blizzard that is coating the Frostbacks in ever deeper snow, a caravan of refugees in her care.Not the Herald.No, it isn’t until she’s standing, staring at the thick falling snow, that she realises she could loseBrennan.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Snow

It seems only fitting that she finally realises there’s someone to lose as she’s standing, staring at the blizzard that is coating the Frostbacks in ever deeper snow, a caravan of refugees in her care.

Not the _Herald_.

She’s been protecting him for months now. Keeping him safe from bandits, demons, templars and all manner of other enemies as they travel throughout Ferelden. Helping him and watching over him as he develops his abilities and proves himself to be more than worthy of his title. It’s second nature to her now. She is well aware of the cost to the world should they lose his ability to close the rifts. Images of demons dragging him through the Breach, or rogue templars severing his left arm from his body, have kept her awake at night more than once.

He’s back there… somewhere. The arrow had gone up, and they had heard the rumbles of the avalanche that had soon followed it, but… nothing more. No signal, no sign of him. The snow is falling so thickly, but he has his party – three men she has grown to trust, if somewhat reluctantly.

Everything in her wanted to be part of that party. To protect him the best way she knew how, with her sword and shield and body, putting herself between him and the hordes that would cut him down. But no, he had insisted that she go with his advisors and the Haven survivors, keeping only Bull, Dorian and Varric with him. Though she had wanted to argue, she had seen his logic. It made sense to send as many figures of authority with the caravan as possible.

She trusts the Herald.

No, it isn’t until she’s standing, staring at the thick falling snow, that she realises she could lose _Brennan._

He is infuriating at the best of times.

Reckless with his own personal safety, not because he is overconfident, she knows, but because he wants so desperately to please everyone around him. Pretending he’s not in pain when she can so easily tell he is. Staying up long into the night, whether it’s to socialise with his other companions, or to work with the advisers; yet often awake before the dawn to train, either with herself or one of the other mages. He doesn’t sleep enough or eat enough, and there have been more than a few days when she wanted to ask Adan for a knockout potion to slip into his wine.

She’s never known him to say no to a favour asked or request made, not even when it takes them miles out of their way, or forces them to spend a day they can’t spare scaling cliffsides in search of flowers to lay on a woman’s grave, or leading a loose druffalo back to its field.

And through all they do, he is almost always smiling. That bright, infectious grin, no matter how dark the situation, or dire the circumstances, or early the morning. It drives her crazy sometimes, especially when she _knows_ the only reason that he’s smiling is so that no one else can tell he’s breaking inside.

In the early days, she thought he was an idiot. Often stumbling over his words, timid and uncoordinated in the field, never speaking up in meetings unless directly asked a question. Another sheltered, pampered, noble-born Circle mage. It was hard to believe he was Andraste’s chosen unless he was actively closing a rift.

She’s not sure when it stopped being hard to believe in him.

_Maker_ , it was easier when she thought he was an idiot.

“Cassandra? Are you well?” Josephine asks, lightly touching her arm and breaking her reverie.

She nods, briskly, not trusting her voice. Turning back towards the caravan of refugees that have all but left her behind, she lets the ambassador draw her after them, trudging onwards through the ever-deepening snow.

That’s when she hears the sound of people running behind her.

“Seeker!”

Varric’s voice cuts through the wind.

She turns back, almost toppling Josephine in her haste. Not looking back to see if the ambassador has managed to right herself, she strides purposefully towards the shadows she can see in the distance. Her heart is beating so fast, longing to see his face.

“Thank the Maker we found you,” Varric yells, joyful, as she draws close. “Thought we’d never get through.”

Three figures, in the haze.

Varric, half-carried through the (to him) waist-deep snow by Bull, both of them breathing heavily. Dorian, using his staff as a walking stick, bent almost double against it now, a hand clutched to his ribs.

Three.

Just… three.

She strains her eyes, looking beyond them for the fourth member of their party.

“He’s not… he’s not coming.” It’s Dorian that voices the thought she’s trying to stop herself from thinking. He pulls himself up, leaning a little against Bull’s free side as he struggles for breath. “The Herald.”

“He fell through the ice, Seeker,” Bull adds, a low, angry subtone to his voice. “Confronted the bad guy and his dragon, launched the last trebuchet and then he was just… gone. We looked, but…”

“If we hadn’t left when we did, there’d be four corpses in the snow and you lot none the wiser,” Varric finishes.

No.

_No._

“What are you saying?” she manages to ask, unable to stop frowning at them.

“He’s dead, Cassandra,” Dorian tells her, his voice soft but carrying, even through the blizzard. “Brennan’s dead.”

She shakes her head. It doesn’t make any sense. They _need_ the Herald. Even if the Breach is sealed, there are still dozens of rifts left, and that’s just the ones they know about. Word has come from all over Ferelden and Orlais, but the ravens have not yet returned from the Free Marches, from Nevarra, from further away. There could be hundreds. And without him, who will seal them?

He _cannot_ be dead.

Her feet start carrying her forwards without conscious thought, past the little party and beyond them, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s all but running through the snow as best she can.

“Cassandra!”

She hears someone yelling her name, but she cannot acknowledge it.

What will they be without the Herald? How can the Inquisition go on without him? How can she…

A gauntleted hand suddenly grabs her arm, wheeling her around with the force of it, and she throws a punch towards her attacker on pure, unbridled instinct. It misses its mark, barely grazing along the thick, fur-covered shoulder of Cullen’s cloak.

“Let go of me!” she yells.

“Cassandra, stop!” he yells back. “You need to calm down. We need to go forwards; we need to find shelter or we will all freeze.”

“Then go! I am not stopping you!”

She wrenches herself away from him, striding onwards through the snow as fast as she can.

“I’ll stay with her, the rest of you, go, onwards,” she hears him say, not bothering to wait and see what their answer will be.

It’s clearly affirmative, though, as he follows her, staying a pace or so behind, for what feels like hours. Every now and again he tries to reason with her, asking and ordering and begging her to turn back, to find shelter, but her mind is made up.

He…

The Herald _cannot_ be dead.

She will find him.

Eventually, he draws up beside her. The going is rough, boulders slowing their progress that she barely remembers passing by the first time. More than once, one of them stumbles in the snow and the other has to pull them up. She’s getting more and more tired, that burst of adrenaline that had fuelled her up until now steadily draining dry.

Then…

“Is that…”

A faint glow in the night. A specific shade of green that she would recognise anywhere.

For one, horrible moment, she wonders if it’s a rift, there to taunt them, but no. Cullen launches past her as she stumbles against another boulder and forces herself on. 

“There! It’s him!”

Relief floods through her at the sight, even as the Herald’s form crumples toward the snow in front of them. “Thank the Maker!”

By the time they reach him, he is firmly unconscious. Unconscious, and barely breathing. Barely shivering either, as she knows he should be. The mark has faded, almost extinguished in his hand. She drops beside him, pressing her fingers against his throat, finding his pulse, weak and slow. There’s a healing potion in the pouch on her belt, and she presses it to his lips, carefully tipping the liquid into his mouth. Thank the Maker, he swallows it, but he does not wake.

Cullen kneels beside her, shrugging the cloak from his shoulders and carefully wrapping the fur-lined material around the Herald’s limp form. He shakes him gently as he does so, but the Herald does not respond.

“We’ll have to carry him,” Cullen says, pulling himself to his feet. “It’ll be easier if I do it.”

She wants to protest; wants to carry him herself, but she’s not stupid. Cullen is just as strong as she is, but he’s also larger. It will be easier for him to spread the Herald’s weight. Between the two of them, they manage to get the Herald onto Cullen’s shoulders, the cloak still tucked around him. She takes the staff, fingers tight around the grip that’s still just a little body-warm, even if she might only be imagining it.

The way back to the caravan seems to take less time, even though they are moving a little slower. Their tracks remain, only slightly obscured by the wind. Even the snow seems lighter, less oppressive, now that they have him back.

A camp has started to be set up by the time they find the rest of the refugees. People are huddled around fires, setting up tents and preparing food. When they come into view, several people drop what they’re doing, whispers rippling through the air.

She doesn’t mean to deter help, but the expression on her face must be a little fiercer than usual, because it’s Leliana who eventually steps up, a small and careful smile on her face.

“Does he live?” she asks Cullen, a comforting hand brushing against Cassandra’s arm, so fleetingly that it would be easy to deny it ever happened.

“Barely.”

It’s her own voice that answers, though she doesn’t recognise it.

Leliana nods. “Then let’s get him warm, yes?”

There’s a large tent containing several bedrolls and camp beds, clearly designated as a temporary hospital. Leliana leads them to it, silently directing her people to curtain off one of the beds, giving the Herald some degree of privacy. Cullen puts him down, and is immediately drawn away by his lieutenants, clearly eager to brief him on the situation before he sleeps.

She kneels at the bedside, as she’s done before.

One of the runners brings a pile of blankets, helping one of the mage healers to remove the now fairly sodden cloak and enchanter robes that cover him. People flit in and out.

They work around her.

Long minutes pass, and the Herald is still blue-tinged and cold to the touch. The usual colour is gone from his cheeks. None of the gentle spells and potions they try have more than a cursory effect.

She hears them whispering, above and around her, about the benefits versus the costs of heating him further with magic. It would be faster, but it might damage his skin, his blood vessels, his internal organs. Most importantly, they don’t know how the mark would react to it. One suggests fetching Solas…

“Body heat.”

She doesn’t realise she’s said it until the whispering abruptly stops. When she lifts her eyes from the Herald’s cold, pale face, she sees several curious expressions around her.

“Body heat,” she echoes herself. “It was how we were trained to stave off the elements. Flesh pressed against flesh will regulate temperature. It would warm him.”

They glance between themselves, and she knows without needing words that they are all wondering who would be best. Who is worthy of such a task.

Just as she knows that she cannot let it be anyone other than herself.

She wasn’t there to guard him at the fall of Haven, nor prevent him from having to traverse the Frostbacks alone and freezing, but she can do this much. She can protect him now.

“Leave us.”

Rumours will spread, she knows. More to add to the ones that already flutter around the troops, about how close the Seeker and the Herald are, how he turns to her for guidance and protection and whatever else he needs, and she is always there. She lets them run off of her like raindrops off her armour, because there is no use in denying them. It only feeds the flames.

The curtains fall, enclosing them in canvas alone.

Her heart beats just a little faster as she thinks about just how close they are going to have to be. How bare. Flesh against flesh, just as she told the mages.

The Herald is already in his smallclothes, thanks to them. Cocooned in the blankets that have a slight warming charm on them, not that it is helping him. She strips down to a similar state of undress in practiced, unthinking movements. This is not the time to get precious about such things. Thinking back to the survival training of her youth, reminding herself that that is all that this is about, she pulls the blankets away from him, just enough so that she can slip between them.

Positions are a problem. She can’t remember practising with someone who was completely unconscious, unable to aid her. He seems so vulnerable like this. Defenceless, in a way she doesn’t like at all. Finally, she settles on lying mostly on top of him, her chest pressed against his, head in the crook of his neck, blankets over the top of them like a second tent. She tucks his right arm along her body, and grips his left hand in her own. It’s less awkward that she thinks it probably should be.

His skin is like ice against hers though.

Too cold.

Far too cold.

With nothing else to do, she starts praying. Perhaps Andraste herself is the only one who can save her herald.

She is further into the Chant than she expected when he finally starts shivering. Great wracking shudders that course through his whole body. If she were any weaker than she is, she would start crying with relief.

Instead, she grips onto him tighter, her silent recitation of the Chant forgotten in favour of a whispered litany of comfort, promising him that the shivering is better, that the pain is good, that he will live through this. He will. He has to. If only because she can’t have done this for nothing.

Even now, though, she refuses to let herself enjoy it – this feeling of his skin against hers, the revelation of the muscles that his enchanter coat is cut to conceal, the warmth that is spreading through his flesh everywhere they touch. Whatever is between them, it is not this. He is the Herald. She is his warrior, his protector, his guardian. That is all. That is all it ever can be.

Eventually, the shivers subside.

Just for a moment, her heart breaks, thinking he’s slipping away from her, but no. His pulse beats steady and strong under her fingertips. Another few minutes, and she doesn’t know how she can tell, but she’s certain he’s no longer unconscious, merely sleeping.

She waits a while longer, making certain. Runs her fingers across his skin, feeling the warmth that now suffuses it. Looks at his face, and sees the colour returning to his cheeks.

He deserves to rest undisturbed, she thinks, and refuses to admit even to herself that it is because she does not dare risk him waking up and finding her like this. She has no doubt he will find out at some point; some gossip or idle comment revealing her, but she can’t face the music yet. Not together. Not tonight.

With one last involuntary inhale against him, she slips free of the blankets, making sure to tuck them securely around him before she dons her clothes and armour once again.

There is quite the crowd around the campfires, even at this very late hour. A war table has been set up, and she can see Leliana and Josephine standing over it, Cullen seated with a mug in his hand nearby. Someone has dried and returned his cloak, she idly notes. Two of the mages give her questioning looks, and she manages a small smile before they dart past her into the tent.

“Seeker?”

Varric’s voice is thick with lack of sleep. She swallows down the bile and fury that almost consumes her at the sound of it, unable to look at him just yet.

They left him.

Alone.

Left him for dead.

If she hadn’t gone back… if Cullen hadn’t chased after her… They would have lost the Herald. He would have died on the mountain and they would have never known what happened. Maker, it was likely only by the will of Andraste that she and Cullen had even been able to find him in the first place.

The world may very well have ended, because they _left_ him.

“He is alive,” she replies, letting her tone be flinty. “No thanks to you.”

“We know, Seeker, believe me.”

She forces herself to look at him. There’s a blanket around his shoulders, his face is pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looks distraught. She wonders if that should make things better, but it doesn’t.

“He would want me to forgive you.”

A slight smile tilts the corner of Varric’s mouth, just for a moment before it fades. “Kid’s too good-hearted for his own good.”

“At least we agree on something.”

He nods, weary from more than just lack of sleep. “I’ll go tell the others. Sparkler’s been beside himself with guilt.”

Not just Dorian, she surmises, but she lets it go, nodding back at him.

Josephine is the first to acknowledge her as she strides, purposefully, towards the makeshift war table, raising her quill in her customary salute. Cullen gets to his feet, discarding his mug as he steps forwards.

“Does he live?” Leliana asks, for the second time that night.

This time Cassandra can even smile. Small and tight, perhaps, but a smile nonetheless. “He does. I believe he will recover.”

The relief is palpable.

However, it doesn’t last long. With the health of the Herald back on steadier ground, the issue turns to the fact that they have lost their base of operations, their structure and stability. Now that they know the face of their enemy, it is more vital than ever that they have a strong plan of action.

Unfortunately, there is little consensus between them as to what that plan should be. 

Hours later, when they have argued themselves silent again, the Herald emerges from his tent. She looks up from the map she has resigned herself to staring at, almost gasping when she sees him, dressed in his enchanter coat and on his feet, looking none the worse for wear despite his near-death experience in the snow. Yet, now she is the one frozen in place, unable to go to him.

Mother Giselle starts singing.

It’s an old hymn, one she’s heard many times before – ‘The Dawn Will Come’ – but she’s never heard it in a more fitting location.

Leliana joins in, which surprises her a little. She hasn’t heard Leliana sing in… Maker, certainly since before the Conclave. Long before. Her voice is clear and sweet, and it reminds Cassandra of the early years of their friendship, when things were somehow so much simpler. Justinia used to love her voice. It’s strange to think that she has been without it for so long.

Before the verse is over, everyone is singing. Civilians, Chantry sisters, soldiers and scouts. Even Cullen, and she can’t say she’s ever heard him sing anything but the Chant.

Quietly, she lets herself join in too. Her voice is rusty, if she’s honest, but this moment isn’t about a good performance. It’s something far more pure, far more powerful. She sees a few people walk forward, only to kneel before the Herald.

For his part, he stands, tall and strong beside Mother Giselle, and a treacherous part of her wishes that she were the one at his side.

Before too long, they’re going to name him Inquisitor. He doesn’t know that yet, but it was the only thing that she, Leliana, Josephine and Cullen agreed on in their arguments. The Inquisition needs a leader, and they already have an indisputable candidate. Tonight has only given them more reason to believe.

Not yet, however.

The situation is uncertain, and this election needs to be certain. Josephine insists there should be some pageantry, some performance, something that not even the grand clerics, the Empress of Orlais, or any other soul in Thedas could deny. But it is coming, as certain as the dawn.

As the song comes to an end, he catches her eye across the crowd. Even at this distance she can see the ever-so-slightly-icy fear in his eyes, eternally at odds with the gentle, benevolent smile on his lips.

She can see the responsibility settling on his shoulders like snowflakes. Soft and steady, barely noticeable to begin with, but even the strongest tree can break under enough of them, and she is certain another blizzard is coming.

He will bury himself under it without question, to live up to their expectations. Of this, she is certain. He almost has already. But she cannot let that happen. Not when she has finally realised how much she would miss the infuriating, reckless, smiling man who cannot help diverting from their mission to return a stolen wedding ring or rescue a lost ram.

She smiles back at him, and his fear melts away.

Andraste help her, she will protect Brennan, even from himself.


End file.
